An American Bullet

by John Stonehouse

  “They have campgrounds,” Rimes says, “cabins for rent. Ranching, logging.”

  Whicher tips back his hat. “Quite the place.”

  “Maybe it makes him feel safe.”

  At the far end of the clearing, a group of buildings surround a big house made of stone. Cars and trucks are parked among log cabins and a scattering of barns. A few hundred yards to one side is a separate settlement—smaller cabins, with steep-pitched roofs.

  “Those are rentals,” Rimes says.

  “Who else knows about Anthony up here?”

  “You mean, among the ranching folk?”

  The marshal nods.

  “The place takes in delinquents, troubled kids. The county has a program, they pay to place 'em here.” Rimes steers between the heaped snow at either side of the track. “A few kids come from out of state. They’ll live and work on the ranch, helping out. Anthony's just another one of ‘em, so far as the ranch staff know.”

  “Nobody knows he’s in the witness security program?”

  She shakes her head. “Plus they’re used to law enforcement types coming out, from time to time.”

  Whicher looks at the side of her face.

  “Us coming won't seem strange.”

  “Who else knows about him,” the marshal says, “here in South Dakota?”

  “The people in my office.”

  “That’s it? Nobody else?”

  “If somebody gets a relocate, the absolute minimum number of people get told.”

  Whicher thinks of Lauren, thinks of what her brother would be like.

  He studies the buildings through the windshield, looks for people. Notices the flakes of snow now descending through the air.

  Inside the log-lined office, Galen Coburn pours hot coffee—eyes hooded in his weathered face. The ranch owner is lean, around fifty, dressed in work jeans, suspenders, a wool shirt, a slate gray hat.

  The marshal scans the Whitetail antlers hung at the walls.

  “Fixin' to blow in again,” Coburn says. He hands a mug of coffee to Janice Rimes. “We’re going to be getting more snow.”

  Whicher studies the darkening sky at the window.

  The FBI agent steps closer to the fire burning in a stone hearth.

  “Anthony's out at the lake,” Coburn says. “About eight miles from here, up the valley. We have an ice-fishing party coming in tomorrow.”

  “Sounds horrible,” Rimes says.

  Coburn grins, pours a mug of coffee for Whicher, hands it to him. “You can fill your boots with northern pike. Yellow perch, walleye.”

  “Yeah,” Rimes says. “No thanks.”

  “We’re not expecting Anthony back tonight. The camp has to be prepared.”

  “You can't call him?” Whicher says.

  Coburn shakes his head. “Cell coverage is zip, you might have noticed.”

  Rimes shivers. “You don’t have radio?”

  “Mountains and trees,” the ranch owner says, “don’t work real good for radio. The two-way sets will work here and there, but I’d need repeaters to cover all of the acreage I got.”

  Agent Rimes takes a sip of hot coffee.

  “I can’t raise them out at the lake,” Coburn says. “That's a part of the deal out here, why people like it—it’s a place to get away.”

  Whicher pins the ranch owner with a look. “I need to see Anthony, Mister Coburn.”

  The man frowns.

  “I’m afraid it’s real urgent.”

  “Has something happened?”

  “I can't answer that, sir. I just need to get on out there. We find him, we'll be leaving directly.”

  The ranch owner takes a pull at his mug of coffee.

  “There be a problem with that?”

  Coburn puts his head on one side. “We've had a lot of snow the last few days. A winter storm comes through this kind of height, it’ll nail pretty much everything. The trail out to the lake has three to four feet of pack snow on it. No way you're going to get a vehicle through.”

  “How'd Anthony get there?” Whicher says. “How's your ice-fishing party getting out?”

  “Horseback,” the man answers.

  Rimes looks at Coburn. “How about snow mobiles? ATVs?”

  “Don't use 'em. Don't much like 'em.”

  “Seriously. You got to ride on a horse?”

  “Yes, ma'am,” the ranch owner says. “Or I guess you could walk. Does this all have something to do with Anthony's sister calling?”

  Whicher stares across the room at Galen Coburn.

  Janice Rimes sets down her mug. “You spoke with her?”

  “A couple hours since,” Coburn says.

  “You spoke with Anthony’s sister? You took the call?”

  “It came through to our front office,” Coburn says. He spreads his hands. “But they put her through to me.”

  Whicher feels a dryness in his mouth. “Did she give her name?”

  “Yes, sir. She said her name was Lauren.” Coburn's brow creases. “She wanted to speak with Anthony, wanted to know was he here.”

  Rimes’s face is drawn. “Has anybody else called?”

  “Not that I know...”

  “What did you tell her?” Whicher says.

  “I said he was out at the lake.”

  “You told her where Anthony was at?”

  “I said he was out at Elk Lake, that she could leave a message...”

  “Did she do that?”

  “No, sir.”

  The marshal looks at Agent Rimes. “What's the absolute fastest way out there?”

  She looks to Coburn. “How about logging roads?”

  The ranch owner tugs at the collar of his shirt. “There's a logger runs a way up from the back, from the Rochford Road. I can’t say as you’d get up it...”

  “You need to take the car,” Whicher says to Rimes, “get on back down the hill. Call the sheriff's office, get somebody—see if you can get up there.”

  “How long’s it take to drive?” Rimes says.

  “If the road’s open,” Coburn says, “around an hour, I’d guess.”

  “You think it's going to be blocked?” Whicher says.

  “It’s just a logging road, it’s barely used.”

  “Y’all have a horse to fit me?”

  “A horse?” The ranch owner puts back his shoulders. Runs his eye up and down the marshal. “Yes, sir,” he says. He dips his head. “I reckon we do.”

  Eight miles west, in a fenced clearing off the ice-bound lake, Anthony Delano checks the generator; the gasoline tank is almost full. He wraps a gloved hand around the starter handle, pulls on the cord. The motor spins, it catches into life.

  Across the white clearing, two mares lift their heads from a bale of hay—ears angled toward the sound.

  Anthony nods to them. “What? It's just a generator.”

  Standing in the lee of a rough board shelter, he watches the generator run, bedded in the snow in its steel frame.

  Gnarled icicles hang from the edge of the shelter’s tin roof. He breaks one off. Taps it against an upright timber. It doesn't break.

  Tossing it out into the snow, he studies the mares eating—happier outside than in.

  From the shelter, he takes a piece of number-nine fence wire, steps out to an insulated stock tank.

  Bending the wire into a hook, he plunges it into the water—stirs it, the surface already starting to re-freeze.

  With the hooked wire, he picks a submersible heater from out of the snow. He lifts it over the side of the tank, lowers it down in the water.

  He checks the earth strap—it's firm against the spike in the ground. Taking the electrical cord, he plugs it into the generator.

  They'll drink more if the water's not too cold.

  Satisfied, he steps back into the prevailing wind, off the lake.

  He cuts another bale of hay, carries an armful to the wall-mount feeder.

  They'll stay hydrated. Food, water, shelter. They'll be okay.

  H
e watches the mares eat, snow on their backs, no sign of it melting; their coats conserving nearly all of their body heat. His face splits in a grin—horses filled him with wonder, and always had, he felt better just for being around them.

  Stepping from the shelter, he feels the wind on his face.

  At the stock tank he hooks the heater out with the wire, holds it, dripping.

  Steam is rising from the element, it’s hot already. He lowers it back to the bottom of the tank.

  Beyond the paddock, above the tree line, the mountain rises in jags of snow covered rock. The air is dense, opaque—more snow is coming, he's learning to read the signs.

  He turns from the shelter, strides down toward a cluster of six cabins—their camp at the side of the lake.

  Woodsmoke streams from four of the chimneys. By a rick fence is a stack of cordwood, he needs to check the stoves, keep them fed.

  Against the white land and sky he sees a red-and-black-clad figure—a man approaching; Will Jacobs, the senior guide at the ranch.

  Jacobs spots him, gives a wave, points over at the cabins. He's dragging an ice-fishing sled, leaning forward—clumsy-looking in padded jacket and bibs, knee pads above his waterproof boots.

  Anthony hurries to the wood pile. He lifts the tarp cover, pulls out four lengths of seasoned pine.

  He carries them flat against his chest.

  By the porch of the first cabin, the cookhouse, he knocks his boots against the step.

  Jacobs approaches at the edge of the frozen lake, breath clouding around his head.

  Anthony sets down the wood. “What's it like out there?”

  “Getting cold,” Jacobs says, “real cold, if you're out of the sun.” He drags the sled the last yards, ice around his beard and mustache, fleshy face red with the wind.

  Anthony pulls off his gloves, tugs the woolen hat from his head. He runs a hand through his thick blond hair—getting long, he tells himself; a couple of the ranch girls are starting to tease him. Not a good idea to draw attention. Not now, not of any kind.

  He studies the guide’s fishing sled, piled with gear; a gasoline powered auger, a shelter, a tank of spare fuel.

  Jacobs lifts out the augur. “This thing's heavy. Even dragging it on the otter.” From the bed of the sled, he gathers up a bundle of wire pegs topped with orange flags.

  “You get a few places marked?” Anthony says.

  Jacobs grunts. “A few.” He kicks at the hitch pin on the sled—squats, loosens the rope, wrapping it around the marker pegs. “Damn things are going to blow away, this wind.”

  “Did you cut some holes?”

  “A couple.”

  “They won't freeze up?”

  “They might. I put covers on 'em.” Jacobs lifts a box-unit from the sled. “Let's go on in. The GPS is working, but the depth-finder battery gave out, I need to get it charged.”

  “I’ll start the generator,” Anthony says.

  The guide looks at him, puzzled. “Ain’t I hearing it already?”

  “That’s the water tank. For the horses.”

  Jacobs grins. “I swear you think more of them than you do any of us.”

  Anthony runs around to the back of the cabin, to a lean-to shelter made of triple-ply.

  Opening up the slat-door, he stoops to the generator, checks the visual guide-mark on the side of the tank. He pulls on the starter handle—it fires. He flips the doors closed, heads back around to the front of the cabin, picks the firewood from the porch.

  He wipes his boots, steps inside.

  The cabin’s warm, but dim after the outdoor glare.

  He opens up the stove, feeds in wood—sparks fly up the chimney on the wind.

  The depth-finder is already plugged into an outlet, charging. Jacobs is at the gun case on the cabin wall—its door open. He takes out a scoped hunting rifle.

  Anthony shrugs off his coat. “What’re you doing with that?”

  The guide carries the rifle to the window, raises it to the glass. “Just checking...” He looks into the scope, angles his head, sighting through the lens. “I heard something out there...”

  “Out on the lake?”

  “A while back.” Jacobs lowers the rifle. He turns from the window, looks at the younger man. “Everything alright?”

  Anthony nods.

  “It's nothing to worry about, kid.”

  “Well, what did you hear?”

  The man frowns. “Just sounds. Noises on the wind.”

  Anthony stuffs his hands in the pockets of his bibs.

  “Coyote, most like,” Jacobs says. “But it could be a wolf. Fish and Wildlife say they got a report about a large adult male. I don't know if they're right.”

  “I didn't think they had them,” Anthony says.

  “Wolves?”

  “In the Black Hills.”

  “They'll come through from out of state, from time to time. Out of Wyoming. Maybe Montana.”

  Anthony watches the guide work the bolt on the rifle. “Is it a problem?”

  “Maybe,” Jacobs says. “With the horses out there. In Montana, one was taken by a wolf in the fall. Maybe it's just coyote.” He levels the rifle out of the window again. “But keep your eyes and ears open. If it is a wolf, a shot across the bows might scare it off.” He takes down the gun. “You know? That’s all. No need for any killin'.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  A cold wind cuts through the dog-hair stand of sapling pine. Whicher bunches his shoulders, fastens the wool coat tighter at his throat.

  Galen Coburn sits his mare ahead on the forest trail, the horse picking its own way through the snow.

  The marshal feels the rub of the saddle against his thighs. “How far you reckon we've come?”

  The ranch owner turns his head. “Four miles,” he says. “Around that.”

  Whicher grips the saddle horn, the mule-hide covering stiff beneath his gloves. He shifts his weight. “Reckon we could go any faster?”

  “The horses are working hard enough,” Coburn says. “I don't want ‘em sweating, not out here. Not in this.”

  Whicher thinks of Agent Rimes—trying to make it up the logging road to the lake.

  A clump of ice falls through the branches of a tall ponderosa—the quarter horses prick up their ears.

  He studies the trail—the snow on it not deep now, not feet-thick like it was a mile back in the last clearing.

  “How's your horse feel?” Coburn calls back. “Her feet going down alright?”

  The marshal thinks it over.

  Coburn twists in the saddle. “Mine's getting a little trouble. We need to stop a minute.”

  “Sir, I need to get to that lake.”

  “Then you need to do what I tell you.” The ranch owner takes a gloved hand from his horse’s reins. He points to a spot of level ground. “Pull up ahead there. Over by those blackjack pine.”

  Whicher's mare follows the hoof prints of the lead horse.

  Coburn slips from the saddle.

  The marshal puts a hand to his foot, the lug-boots borrowed from a ranch hand tight even in the over-sized stirrups. He pulls one foot free, then the other, swings down.

  “Tie your reins on the tree,” Coburn says.

  “Something the matter?”

  “They'll get snow balling up—it messes with ‘em.”

  Whicher lashes his mare’s reins to a low growing branch.

  Coburn takes off his elk-skin gloves, fishes out a pick from his winter overcoat.

  Raising the fore-leg of the horse, he works the pick around the underside of its hoof. “You mind if I ask you a question?”

  Whicher pulls off his own gloves, breathes warm air onto his fingers.

  “Cold?” Coburn says.

  The marshal nods.

  “Work your hands into her coat there. Up on her back.”

  Reaching out, Whicher pushes his fingers slowly into the matted hair. Feels the warmth, leans in close to the horse’s body. “Nice tip.”

  “So, I g
et to ask a question?”

  “You can ask,” Whicher says.

  “Is Anthony in some kind of danger here? You and Agent Rimes coming out like this, sure as hell gives me cause for disquiet.” He looks at the marshal.

  “I can't tell you anything about Anthony.”

  “But is the boy in danger?”

  “We're out here,” Whicher says. “We’re doing this, ain’t we?”

  Coburn puts a finger and thumb into the packed snow beneath the mare's foot. He prizes out a clump of white, throws it into the trees. “It melts then re-freezes,” he says. “Worse if they're shod.”

  “They're barefoot?”

  “These are—it's better in snow.” The ranch owner puts down his horse’s foreleg, moves to the hind. “I have to think about the other kids, the other people on this ranch. You know? I mean, if Anthony's some kind of risk, I don't want ‘em exposed.”

  Whicher nods.

  “Agent Rimes might have said something; warned me.” Coburn cuts him a look.

  “Take it up with her,” the marshal says. “Or better yet, take it up with her boss.”

  He stares down the side of the hill, through the sapling pine, to a stand of leafless oak. Bare branches black and tangled in the winter light.

  Could anybody really get up here?

  Could Lauren really have called?

  Big flakes are tumbling from a dead-looking sky—the tops of trees moving whip-like in the wind.

  Jerzy Belaski eyes the fall of snow between the tall pines. He steers the Nissan Pathfinder up the forest road.

  No tracks are on its pristine surface—no vehicle has been up or down.

  Lauren DeLuca’s silent in the passenger seat. Her face still, the color drained.

  Seven hours straight driving.

  Seven hours since ditching the stolen Ford. All the way up from Nebraska, the roads choked with snow, with highway crews, with the fallout from the storm.

  Belaski peers at the bend ahead, the road disappearing into high timber.

  The rental office in North Platte had been happy to hire out the all-wheel-drive Nissan—they never could’ve made it in a regular car.

  “This better be the place,” he says.

  No response.

  Lauren Deluca stares out of the windshield, mouth shut firm.